The Day Central City Stood Still
by Wofl
Summary: Future AU. Gen. Implied Elricest if you squint. Al is bitter.


_He was a great man._

Faceless, nameless comments assail Alphonse's ears as he steps outside. The bells have not yet begun to ring, but no one can be bothered to wait to share their stories. Especially the ones that didn't know him. Especially the ones that just wanted to seem like they were included.

Alphonse doesn't want to hear it. The praise, even the scorn ( _What's so great about him? He didn't stop the war, now did he? I heard he helped kill the Fuehrer. Didn't he kill his brother?_) Accusations, rumors, and above all, despite the few skeptics, there is praise floating through the streets as the people crowd the boy and he ignores them all, stuffs his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders and shoves his way through the crowd.

_He was a great man._

But he wasn't even a man, Alphonse thinks bitterly, and tries to block out the sounds of laughter that surround him.

They've turned it into a party, he realizes with some muted degree of horror. They're laughing, people are having barbeques, people are drinking and god, there are even balloons and streamers. Add seventy-six god damned trombones and they could have a fucking parade. And something down in Alphonse's stomach churns and threatens to revolt.

He walks faster, breathes faster, tells himself that they don't matter.

But they do matter.

They matter because that's his brother they're talking about, mourning, accusing of terrible things. That is _Edward_ they're talking about and it's not fair. It's not fair because Edward is not supposed to be a past tense. Edward is supposed to be right there beside him, laughing, one arm slung around Al's shoulders, a shit-eating grin spread across his face. Edward is supposed to be complaining that he is hungry or raving mad because Mustang has sent him to another backwater nowhere town or because someone remarked on his height.

But Edward is dead. Edward is buried in the military plot even though Winry and Al had wanted to bring him back to Rizenbul. He died in the line of duty (Line of duty. Line of duty! They put a bullet right through his temple! They tortured him! That's what the enemy did to its war prisoners. That's what _war _did!) and that qualifies him to be buried in a place of honor where everyone can stand on his grave and weep false tears and mourn because he was a good man.

And Alphonse hates them all, because none of them really knew his brother, and the ones who did weren't out in the streets turning his death into a social holiday.

And perhaps he hated the military a fraction more, for even declaring the 17th of May to _be_ a holiday. He doesn't really know anymore.

All he knows is this is the first anniversary of his brother's death (murder) and the hurt has never really gone away and all he wants is to be sad in private, but he can't because there are people everywhere, all talking about something he wants to forget so badly.

No, not forget, never forget. He could no more forget his brother than he could forget how to breathe. He's there, engraved right on Alphonse's very _soul,_ marked out on his skin in a blood seal, painted red on the back of his neck and everything, his entire body was I made /I by his brother.

He can't forget.

He finds an alley that's devoid of people, eventually, and ducks down it, leans against the dirty brick wall and remembers when he found Ed in a similar alley, blood on his hands and lip quivering. He'd been twelve then, and Al hadn't known how to comfort him.

And there was no one to comfort Al either.

He sighs and kicks at a rotten apple that skitters away from his foot and bounces off a garbage can and rolls to a stop a few feet away. There's a squeak and Alphonse bends down and finds a small orange kitten amidst the debris. He picks the pitiful creature up, cuddling it in his arms, running long spindly fingers down over its knobby spine. And somewhere in a world outside the alley on the streets of Central, a clock chimes noon and a hush descends like a plague upon the city.

There are no more parties, no more words, just baited breath and upturned faces as they all look to the clock tower. And then there is clashing, ringing and the bells are sounding, a mournful discord tribute to a person so brave, to die in service to his country. (He didn't want to go, Al thinks) a service in respect of _a great man_.

The bells go on forever, their cries reaching out with notes that had no tune and filled the ears of the city. And they were all quiet, heads up to watch the bells, or bowed to send up a prayer for a godless soul.

How ironic, Alphonse thinks, that someone who practiced such adamant atheism inspired such faith. But he says nothing. He does not look to the bells, nor does he bow his head. He simply runs his fingers over the spine of the kitten in his hands and stares at a pile of trash and can't seem to find anything to fill the aching, gaping void that is like a raw, infected wound in his heart.

And then the bells stop. One final crash of their dissonant notes and there is a quiet that is almost stifling. For an entire minute, it seems like the city, or maybe the world, has gone deaf.

And then, as if a switch was flipped, the people start talking again, telling stories (lies) about the Fullmetal Alchemist, shaking their heads, and having their parties.

_He was a great man._

Alphonse bites his lip and tries not to hate them.


End file.
